12. Sabina
12
Sabina
The scent of coffee wakes me before the sunlight can, warm and inviting, curling through the air like a lifeline. For a moment, I stay still, the wonderful ache in my body a reminder of last night—of Nikolai. The room feels cocooned in quiet warmth, the faint hum of the generator a steady backdrop. I stretch beneath the blankets, my limbs heavy, my thoughts drifting to him.
And then the door creaks open.
Nikolai steps inside, shirtless, a tray balanced in his hands. His jeans sit low on his hips, his muscles catching the light like a work of art carved from stone. His dark hair is tousled from sleep—or from my hands—and his piercing blue eyes find me immediately.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice low and rough, as if it’s still waking with the rest of him.
“Is that coffee?” I ask, sitting up, clutching the blanket to my chest as if I can shield myself from how easily he unsettles me.
“Not just coffee,” he says, crossing the room with that predatory grace that makes my breath hitch. “Breakfast.”
He sets the tray on the bedside table, and I glance at its contents: cheese, crackers, dried apricots, nuts, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Simple, almost absurdly so, but it feels more intimate than any elaborate spread could ever be.
“You made this?” I ask, tilting my head.
He smirks, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Don’t get used to it.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “You’re full of surprises, Nikolai.”
His smirk softens into something warmer as he watches me take the first sip of coffee. It’s strong, a little bitter, but perfect in its imperfection.
“Where did you get the milk?” I ask.
“The cupboard. It’s shelf stable,” he says. “Wasn’t sure how you like your coffee so I went with milk and sugar.”
“Good guess,” I say.
“Same way I like mine,” he says, letting the words hang between us, as if liking our coffee the same way is somehow prophetic.
“You’re reaching,” I say as I take another sip.
He laughs. His eyes soften as he looks at me, and that makes my heart stutter. I pick up a cracker and some cheese, nibbling on it as a distraction, but the silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s charged, weighted with everything we haven’t said.
When we’re finished eating, I head into the bathroom while he takes the tray back to the kitchen. When I’m done, I crawl back into bed and settle back against the pillows. I enjoy the view as Nikolai saunters back into the bedroom, all those gorgeous muscles and beautiful tattoos on display.
He settles on the edge of the bed and reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“Let’s finish our game,” I say, the words spilling out before I can second-guess them.
His brow arches, a faint flicker of amusement dancing across his features. “Truth or drink? It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Just truth. No more drinks. No more evasions.”
His expression shifts, the amusement giving way to wariness. He studies me for a long moment, then nods.
“All right,” he says, his voice softer now. “But you go first. Tell me a truth, Sabina. Trust me with something no one else knows.”
Trust. Such a short and simple word. Such a heavy and terrifying concept.
But I feel like we might have something, something real, if only I can reach out and grab hold of it. How did I go from hating Nikolai Ivanov to thinking about…
About what? Dating him?
I don’t even know what I’m thinking.
But I do know that I want something from him, some part of him that he’s offered to no one else. And I can only ask for that if I’m willing to give him a secret part of myself.
I hesitate, my fingers curling into the blanket. The weight of his gaze feels heavier than it should—not oppressive, but steady. Like he’s holding the space open for me, daring me to trust him. And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I do.
“There was a night,” I begin, my voice trembling despite my efforts to steady it. The words feel heavy, like they’re dragging me down even as I force them out. “In college. I was walking back to my dorm from a party. It was late. Too late. And… there was this man.”
Nikolai’s body goes still, every muscle tightening. The energy in the room shifts, his sharp focus locking onto me, unrelenting but patient. His silence feels like an invitation—not to rush, not to hide, but to finally let the truth out.
“He followed me,” I continue, my fingers clutching the blanket as though it could anchor me. “I tried to lose him, but he was faster. He grabbed me. Dragged me behind a Dumpster.” My voice cracks, and I can’t stop the shudder that runs through me. “I screamed. I fought. But no one came. And he had a knife.”
I stop, my throat closing up, the memory clawing at me like a living thing. I hear the pop of a log in the wood stove. My breath is shallow, my chest tight.
The mattress shifts as Nikolai moves closer, his presence grounding me in the here and now. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch me. He just waits, steady and solid, the quiet strength of him like a shield I can lean on.
“He didn’t get to do what he wanted to do,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I had a gun in my bag. Papa always made me carry one. I never thought I’d need it. But I did. I pulled it out.” I look at him then, my eyes searching his face for something—understanding, judgment, I don’t even know. “I don’t remember much from that point, Nikolai. I just wanted him to stop. We struggled. And the gun… it went off. I remember the shot, so loud. And I remember blood. So much blood.”
The tears come then, unbidden and unstoppable. They blur my vision, spill down my cheeks, hot and bitter, as the weight of the memory crushes me.
“He was going to—he was going to do something terrible to me.” My voice breaks, the words jagged and raw. “And I killed him before he could.”
My hands tremble as I cover my face, unable to look at him anymore. “I called Papa. He sent his people. He made it go away. No police. No questions. Just… gone.” A bitter laugh escapes me, sharp and broken. “He told me I did what I had to do. That I shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“But you do.” Nikolai’s voice is low, rough, and full of something I can’t quite name. Rage, maybe. But not at me. Never at me.
I nod, unable to speak. The guilt, the fear, the confusion—it all wells up inside me, threatening to drown me.
“I’ve never told anyone else,” I whisper finally. “Until now.”
The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of my confession. I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unwavering. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out, his hand brushing mine, his touch warm and steady.
“You survived,” he says, his voice a quiet force. “You did what you had to do.”
His words don’t absolve me. They don’t erase the memory. But they do something else—something I didn’t expect. They make me feel seen. Understood. Maybe even forgiven.
“You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Sabina,” he continues, his eyes burning into mine. “But you fought back. You saved yourself. And you don’t owe anyone an apology for that.”
A fresh wave of tears spills over, and this time, I don’t fight them. I let them come, let them carry away some of the pain I’ve been holding onto for so long.
Nikolai shifts closer, his hand moving to my cheek, wiping away a tear with the pad of his thumb. His touch is gentle, his expression fierce.
“I don’t want to kill anyone ever again,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of the admission. “I don’t want to be that person. I will wound someone to defend myself. But I will not kill. Never again.”
Nikolai’s jaw tightens, his grip on my hand firm but gentle, grounding me. His pale blue eyes meet mine, fierce with conviction, but there’s something softer beneath the surface—a tenderness he doesn’t show to anyone else.
“I understand,” he says, his voice low and steady, like an anchor in a storm. “And I’ll make sure you never have to. Not if I can help it.”
He pauses, his gaze burning into mine as if willing me to believe him. “You’ve carried that weight alone for too long. It’s not yours to carry anymore. Not while I’m here.”
The promise in his words is unshakable, a vow carved into stone. He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over my knuckles, a gesture that’s as protective as it is reverent.
“I’ll be the one to end it, Sabina. If someone comes for you, they’ll answer to me.”
The conviction in his voice makes something in my chest crack open. He’s not just saying it to placate me. He means it. And I realize then that when Nikolai says I’m his, it’s not about possession—it’s about protection , about cherishing me.
“Your turn,” I whisper, not at all certain he’ll open himself to me the way I did to him.
“My turn,” he agrees, and his voice is rough now, like the words are dragging themselves out of him. “You want truth, Sabina? Here it is.”
I sit up straighter, my heart thudding as I wait for him to continue.
“My father has always been a monster,” he begins, his tone flat, hollow. “Not just to his enemies, but to everyone. When I was eleven, my father gave me a puppy. I named her Bee. She was a beautiful, tiny thing that loved me without question. For three days, I thought… maybe my father could love me too.” His voice falters, just for a second, and I feel the ache of that hopeful boy.
A chill runs down my spine as his voice hardens. “On the fourth day, he stabbed her. Right in front of me. Left me to clean up the body. The blood. I went for him, punching, kicking, clawing. I wanted to kill him. I wanted him dead. He laughed. Said that love makes a man weak. That was the lesson he wanted me to learn. He wanted me to love that puppy and then lose her.” His fists clench on his thighs, the tension rippling through his body.
My hand flies to my mouth, a soft sob escaping before I can stop it. The image is too vivid, too cruel.
“But Mikhail Ivanov wasn’t done with his lessons,” he says, his gaze fixed on some far-off point. “Three months later, my mother tried to escape, to take me with her. He caught us. And he killed her too. Shot her. And left me to deal with her body.”
His words land like a punch, the casual brutality of them tearing at me.
“Nikolai,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of his words.
“The only love I ever had was from my uncle, Vlasta,” he continues, his voice softening. “He tried to protect me, tried to keep Mikhail in check. But even he couldn’t stop him.”
His jaw tightens, his expression hardening as memories consume him.
I feel sick. Nikolai had been a child. A child .
“All I could do,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, “was survive him. Day by day. He told me I’d be nothing without him, that I’d be weak and broken without his lessons. That I’d end up like my mother, a fool who thought love could protect her.”
“Why didn’t your uncle just kill him when he murdered your mother?” I ask, my voice trembling despite the steadiness I’m trying to project. I can’t fathom how someone as ruthless as Nikolai’s father wasn’t dealt with the moment he crossed the line.
Nikolai leans back slightly, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a deep, simmering pain there, layered with something that almost looks like regret.
“Vlasta was… careful,” he begins, his voice low and deliberate. “He was the head of the syndicate, but leadership isn’t absolute. You can’t just kill a man like my father and expect no one to question it.”
I shake my head, confused. “But if Mikhail was dangerous, if he was hurting people—hurting you—why would anyone protect him?”
A bitter smile curves Nikolai’s lips, one that sends a chill down my spine. “Because Mikhail had his own allies. He made sure of it. Men who owed him, men who feared him. Killing Mikhail without proof of betrayal would have fractured the syndicate. Killing my mother wasn’t betrayal.” He shrugs. “It was just murder.”
He pauses, his gaze distant as though he’s seeing it all play out in his mind. “Vlasta was trying to keep the family intact, to keep the power balanced. He thought he could control Mikhail. That he could manage him.”
His voice darkens, a razor’s edge cutting through the words. “He was wrong. My father poisoned him, killed him like it was nothing. Made it look like a heart attack. And then blamed your family for his death.”
His gaze locks onto mine, unflinching, his pain raw and unguarded, cutting into me like shards of glass. “I’ll take everything from him, Sabina. His empire, his power, his life. And when I do, it won’t just be for me—it’ll be for every life he’s destroyed, every scar he’s left behind.”
The air between us feels electric, heavy with something unspoken but undeniable. As I sit here, wrapped in the presence of this man who radiates both fury and control, I feel it—something deep and unshakable blooming between us. It terrifies me, this pull, this connection, because it isn’t just his strength or his refusal to break that draws me in. It’s his darkness, the shadows he’s embraced to survive. And, God help me, I’m not just drawn to it—I’m mesmerized by it.
What does it say about me that with each passing moment, I let go of another piece of myself, willingly offering it to this broken, dangerous, beautiful man? That I’m not just falling for him, but into him—into the abyss he carries with him, one that promises both destruction and salvation?